To me. Today, October 18th, is my birthday. I’m
the seventh of eight children, six boys and two girls. When my parents learned they
were expecting again, my father told the doctor to make sure this one was a
girl. (My sister is eleven years older than me.) The doctor then gave my mother
pre-natal vitamins (tablets that were half blue/half pink) and told her to
swallow the pink end first. Until the day he died, my father claimed he wasn’t
surprised I was a girl.
He wasn’t ‘big’ on being surprised.
I inherited that from him.
Picture explanation—this was taken at my granddaughter’s
birthday. Our family is ‘big’ on birthday parties and everyone is expected to
dress accordingly. That year it was a princess party, I was dressed as a snow
queen. I believe this picture was snapped when the cake almost hit the
floor.
This year I plan on celebrating quietly. Dinner out is all I
need. I’ve had the big parties. The pajama parties when I was young. Years later,
the ones where it hurt to open my eyes the next morning. After that came the
sentimental ones, like the time my hubby and sons forgot about the ice cream
cake on the backseat of the van. And then there were the surprise parties. Oh,
who could forget them? As if hitting those monumental BIG O’s wasn’t enough.
I’ve had three such events. Three. Not to scorn the people
who worked so hard to pull them off, but to be frank, I loathe surprise
birthday parties. The last one, just two years ago, I innocently agreed to ride
to town for a short errand, only to end up in a banquet room (my sons and their
wives went all out) in comfortable clothes—which means nothing was being held
in or up—and no make-up, surrounded by a horde of people ready to party the
night away. I didn’t even have my glasses so couldn’t read the cards everyone
else was laughing their behinds off while reading. (My youngest drove home and
got my glasses for me, bless his heart.)
To me, surprise parties are like that moment when you step
out of the shower and discover someone else in the bathroom. Startled, you
attempt to jump back over the rim of the tub and get tangled in the shower curtain.
The rod lets loose, hitting your head before the sharp metal end lands on your
big toe, right after it managed to hit the water knob—the cold one—which blasts
you in the face.
That is exactly how I feel when entering a room full of
people shouting, “Surprise!” Like a turtle on its back, arms and leg flaying.
Butt naked.
In the bathroom you ultimately come to the realization the
other person isn’t a mass murderer ready to stab you with a kitchen knife, it’s
just your husband looking for the dental floss. However, at the party, you’re
stuck with people describing their impression of how your face looked when you
entered the room. Or sharing the pictures they’d snapped like the one above.
(That one made its debut on facebook before the party was even over.)
Don’t get me wrong, the birthday parties have all been fun.
I feel blessed to have such a thoughtful family and honored so many chose to
celebrate birthday milestones with me. BUT, I have told my family, no more
surprise parties.
On the other hand, I like small surprises. A bouquet of
flowers, or unexpected phone call. A REAL letter in the mailbox. Finding money
in the dryer, or in a coat pocket you haven’t worn for years.
My hubby is good at little ones. While I was in Texas this
summer for the RWA conference, I discovered an envelope in an obscure zipper of
my suitcase (one of those top one you never use). It held a Hershey’s Kiss and
a sweet note saying he hoped I was having fun. Along with a post-it note that
said, “Go shopping” stuck to a hundred dollar bill. (Yeah, he’s good at little
surprises and knows me well.)
I love those kinds of surprises. It’s the caught-naked-with-nothing-but-a-shower-curtain
ones I don’t like.
How about you? Do you like to be surprised or not?
The heroine, Marie Hall, in The Wrong Cowboy which will be released November 1st, isn’t
fond of surprises, but is determined to do anything for the six children in her
care.
Here’s a short snippet when she meets Stafford Burleson—not Mick
Wagner as she’d expected:
Tipping
the edge of his hat back, and giving her a very penetrating stare from eyes
that looked to be as gray as a storm cloud, the man acted as if he wasn’t going
to answer her questions.
Marie’s
nerves started jumping faster than the grasshoppers the twins had been chasing.
She’d been charging things in Mr. Wagner’s name since leaving Chicago. Soon the
bills would be more than she’d be able to repay. That wasn’t her major
concern—the children were—but with each day that passed, their financial
situation had started to trouble her more and more.
Finally,
when the air in her lungs had built up a tremendous pressure from his stare,
Mr. Burleson said, “I’m here to take you to Mick’s place.”
It
wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but her sigh was so long she wondered if her
toes had been holding air. When it was all out, she nodded. “Well, thank you.
We’ve been expecting he’d send someone.” In truth she’d been praying Mick
Wagner would come to collect them, or send someone, but she’d never allow the
children to know she’d been worrying about the outcome of their adventure.
The
man nodded. “We can head out in an hour.”
“An
hour?” Still shaky with relief, it took Marie a moment to process his
statement. Her thoughts shifted to everything that needed to be done before
they left, and she shook her head. “That’s not possible. We’ll leave tomorrow
morning.”
Mr.
Burleson’s stormy eyes glared again. “We’ll leave in an hour.”
“No,
we won’t.” She spun about, gestured to the children. “Gather your playthings.
It’s time to return to our hotel rooms.”
They
minded without question, for once, and she turned back to the man. “We’ll be
ready to leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”
“It’s
barely noon,” he said. “We can get a good number of miles under our belt yet
today.”
“Tonight
is bath night, Mr. Burleson,” she said, holding her ground. When it came to the
children and their needs she’d argue until the sun set—dealing with the
solicitor back in Chicago had taught her to not back down. No matter how
frightening it was. “I will not have the children’s schedule upset.”
“You
will not—”
“That’s
correct,” she interrupted. “I will not.” No good nursemaid would, and she was
the best nursemaid that had ever come out of Miss Wentworth’s training course.
The owner herself had said as much. Marie had a document that proclaimed it in
writing. She’d used it as a testimonial when interviewing for positions. Not
that she’d need it anymore. Abandoning the Meeker children was something she’d
never do. That’s what she’d told Mr. Phillips, the solicitor, back in Chicago,
as well as several other people who’d suggested such a thing. She’d been hired
as their nursemaid, and she would fulfill her duties.
The
children had gathered around again, holding their toys and looking at her
expectantly. So was Mr. Burleson. With so much to do, Marie couldn’t waste any
time. “You can see to the hotel bill and the train fares, Mr. Burleson, and
then bring the wagon around. A large number of our possessions can be loaded
this afternoon.”
“Hotel
bill? Train fares?”
Marie and Stafford are in for several more surprises before
their story ends.
I have two advance copies of The Wrong Cowboy to give away. Just leave a comment telling me
about one of your best—or most startling—surprises to be entered in the
drawing. There may be a little something extra that goes along with the books.
(One thing I didn’t mention is that I do like instigating surprises. I
inherited that from my father, too. April Fool’s Day was his favorite.) Be sure
to include your email address along with your comment. Our wonderful host, Lee,
will randomly draw the winners and their names will be posted at the bottom of this post.
Thanks for joining me here today! If you’d like to, I’d be
honored to connect with you elsewhere:
